The Jabberwock

By: Kahmanni Sanchez, ’26

Westbrook was no ordinary man. As a child, he survived the turbulent times of the 2020s, fought in the 2030s, promoted in the 2040s and now serves under the title “Chief Investigator” of the Toronto city police department in 2052. Both he and Patient 6405 served themselves a seat under the brightly lit room in the back of the prison that held Westbrook’s friends and enemies alike. Patient 6405 was a tall, dark skinned burly man who spoke little in terms of words. His eyes were everlastingly bloodshot, his eyebrows didn’t exist and his nose looked like it had been broken and fixed back together multiple times. Westbrook on the other hand was average height, a bit skinny on the arms but thick on the legs. His glasses were premium made from the “Verres de l’amende” eyewear tailor over in the southern Quebec state. With sharp edges for the part that rests on the ears and an oval design for the rest. His blue eyes changed to green under intense light and his face was chiseled around the jaw. Westbrook’s police uniform made his arms look much bigger than they actually were, giving the 34 year old an edge of intimidation that Westbrook had thoroughly enjoyed throughout his career. Westbrook sat down on the soft brown chair and placed his tools of the trade onto the white table. A state-made pen, paper, sets of pictures, a remote control, phones, bloody knives in plastic baggies, and several printed documents detailing the gruesome crime that led to this situation in the first place. Westbrook wastes no time in making himself at home, raising his feet onto the empty parts of the desk and combing back his hair as he casually opens his mouth to begin the questioning.

“You from around these parts? ‘Sure don’t look like it.”

True to his nature, 6405 stays quiet, setting his eyes on the endless white little bumps that make up the table rather than Westbrook’s face. Westbrook assures himself that 6405 will eventually come under the pressure and talk. He was always good at that, this marked his 1000th questioning since he started his promotion. All scum talk eventually, they all cave into pressure and open their mouths. Every scum was the same, they all had their own patterns of thought and codes to unlock. Par for the course, at least in Westbrook’s mind. 

To initiate his mind games, Westbrook picks up the first document and holds it tightly in his pale white hands, and begins to recite it in front of the convict:

EARNEST CLEMMINGS: MADMAN – 6405.

“6405 is a tall, strong scum hailing from Washington D.C. Subject has had a history of violence first documented at age 7, where he beat a bully to near death with several rocks at his elementary school. At 16, he became involved in an illegal firearms racket and used said weapons to cause chaos among several protests of the “Black Lives Matter” era in the 20’s. Scum displays similar behavior to others of his kind, killing without discrimination, motive, or any general thought. Subject and his comrades have targeted anyone on the political spectrum brave enough to protest, celebrate, or fight in the public square. From Tankies to Fascists, Scum has caused the deaths of at least 40 people over the course of his life on the outside.”

The paper never read the word “scum”, Westbrook simply added it as one of his usual tactics in questionings. “Scum” was simply the nickname Madmen was given in the U.S.N.A, especially in the Canadian states. Madmen were strange breeds, Westbrook usually never paid much attention in the school however he did jot down many notes on the Madmen. It had only been 30 years since they first appeared, or since the first one. The story was fresh in Westbrooks’ mind. A senator underwent a massive mental crisis after the election of Jorge B. Adams,or as everyone called the late President, Jorgy. Suffering a stroke and becoming bedwritten for the rest of his term. Doctors said that his brain had shrunk massively, but the other parts of his body were healing naturally, the wrinkles on his skin started to vanish and he didn’t need a cane anymore as he had the legs of someone at their peak age. His soft punches hit harder than professional boxers and he stopped speaking. Before the old bastard died, he bred his wife one last time and the baby was born 5 hours before he flatlined. The baby never talked but was said to understand written language perfectly. “It” was just as strong as his bastard of a father, maybe even stronger. It wasn’t like the other humans because he looked different, sounded different, or even existed differently. It’s because it was scum. It’s brain was recorded as 50% smaller than the other 5 year olds at kindergarten. Doctors once again examined the boy and found that any part, any protein, atom, molecule dedicated to the ability to think, understand or talk was redirected to making “it” survive longer than your average joe. ‘Like a fucking neanderthal, it held no attraction to women, other men, or even its own kind.“It” only mated to make more scum and viewed everything else as evil, Divided messes of nature who only served to destroy themselves.

Westbrook, and the other members of the police department knew one important thing about scum, that they viewed everything, even themselves, as too polarized to live. Humanity was surely polarized, Westbrook knew that first hand. However he had turned himself into something of an apolitical figure thanks to the Madmen. That as long as scum existed, Westbrook knew that humanity would always agree on the fact that scum were scum, and to make a thing as polarizing as a Madman, it would take a polarizing death. The Theory goes that the old bastard’s stroke was caused by the fact that Jorgy was a trans man. But that was as far as Westbrook researched on his own. He wasn’t interested in the senator’s backstory, he only cared that he was responsible for creating them. 

Westbrook woke up from his thoughts and briefly wondered if he had messed up somewhere, if the Neanderthal in front of him had escaped and he was only seeing an illusion, but he relaxed in the fact that Madmen don’t have “thoughts”. They only think about what to kill and who to mate. His was soon proven correct as the large wall in between him and Patient 6405 served as a barrier to all potential harm that could be done to him. The large wall functioned as a one way window on Westbrooks side, with many buttons, switches, and keyboards to use for a variety of things. On the Patient’s side was a mirror that only showed his reflection with the brown and smudge-yellow covered walls making up the rest of the space. Suddenly the mirror lights up to a blank, touch screen canvas that resembles some knock-off version of Microsoft paint. 

“Draw how you’re feeling at the moment, I’m curious.” Westbrook comes out of his laid back stance and leans his face into his version of the monitor that is displayed on his side of the wall. Patient 6405 sits still for a minute, maybe 2, maybe 3. Westbrook was so focused on the monitor that he lost track of time for a moment. 

“This is your one chance to get your feelings out!”

“if you even have any-“ Westbrook mumbles to himself. 

Suddenly 6405 moves his bulky hands infested with paper cuts, hangnails, and sharp wounds and raises it up to the white LCD screen. His first stroke is a line, a sharp line, so sharp that Westbrook can feel not only the grazing sound of 6405’s fingers, but the one way thinking of his intent with every stroke. His next two strokes form a triangle, and his next 3 form an upside down triangle inside of the first. 

A Star of David. His next 2 form the swastika, the next 10 form a scuffed American flag. Then the flag of the antifa movement, then the Hammer and Sickle, the cross, he continues like this for minutes on end. Westbrook can only watch, he wants to end it, his ego knows what 6405 is saying and demands it stop for the sake of pride and image. But Westbrook stands still, not just his body, but his mind as well. There isn’t a lick of any curiosity flowing through his body; he is encapsulated in a state of watching a scum draw more than a man thought one could. 

Westbrook began to feel a small bit of fear, but not enough to stop him from finally pressing the button that locks the touch screen in place. “Alright- you’re done, you’re done.” He takes a screenshot and disables the screen. The wall flashes with light for a brief moment and reverts back to the one way mirror. It’s here when Westbrook lifts his head up to look at 6405 that he realizes that he isn’t the only one with this idea. 6405 is already staring at him, his eyes firmly locked onto what he believes is Westbrook’s face. He stares back, for a small moment, his eyes begin to shift to a green pigment, but he blinks and they revert back to blue. 

Suddenly a beaming announcement rocks both men’s seats as Westbrook comrades speak up, “Hey, This is over, wrap it up, we don’t want to waste this chance.” 

Westbrook obliges and begins to pack up, 6405 returns his head to its docile state of looking down at the table, and continues this motion as he is escorted out of the room. 

After the shock passed over, Westbrook exited the room and greeted his fellow colleagues at the looking booth overseeing the prison complex. He has never considered himself to have friends, at least according to his definition of “friends”. Every word is subjective in his day and age. Although not limited by government, words have taken on a new age where even the simplest of 3 letter adjectives, pronouns, and transitional can be multiple things with or without context. The words haven’t changed, English 50 years ago is easily readable and understandable, the original meanings haven’t been lost either. But every word feels different. After all, language was one of many things that changed after the wars.